J03 


COURAGE! 

| 

RICHARD  MANSFIELD,  2ND 


THE  LIBRARY 
OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 

Anton  V.  Long 


COURAGE! 


RICHARD  MANSFIELD  2ND 

Born  April  3,  1898,  at  Rye,  New  York 

Died  August  3,  1918,  at  San  Antonio,  Texas 


COURAGE ! 

By 
RICHARD  MANSFIELD,  2nd 


FEFftOR 

I  A-s£oy 

EKTE5 


'Will  change  the  world  together—' 


MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  1918 
Moffat,  Yard  and  Company 


P5 


RICHARD  MANSFIELD  2nd 

The  son  of  genius  seldom  inherits  it.  But  in 
Richard  Mansfield  2nd  the  stars  pointed  to  an  ex 
ception.  Young  as  he  was,  he  had  not  only  given 
promise  of  artistic  distinction  but  to  a  considerable 
degree  and  in  several  fields  had  attained  it.  As  an 
actor,  at  school  and  elsewhere,  he  had  already  ex 
hibited  much  of  his  father's  peculiar  vigor  and  grace. 
As  a  writer,  he  had  begun  a  novel  and  a  play  and 
had  planned  and  partly  written  a  collection  of  poems 
about  Barakeesh. 

For  the  journey  to  Barakeesh,  this  city  of  his 
dreams,  he  was  always  alert;  and  for  himself  and 
his  comrades  his  ardor  was  like  a  magical  carpet. 
O.  Henry  conceived  of  a  caliph  in  disguise  wander 
ing  through  the  ways  of  Manhattan.  Such  was 
Richard  when  he  would  come  from  Barakeesh  to 
New  York,  save  that  the  disguise  could  never  long 
conceal  his  buoyant  young  pomp.  And  yet  the 
poems  he  left  are  not  so  much  of  Barakeesh  as  of 
New  London  and  its  countryside,  not  so  much  of 
his  dreams  as  of  the  real  people  he  loved — and 
finally  of  the  war's  abrupt  call  to  his  heart.  And 
they  remain,  a  bright  token  of  his  impetuous  life, 


distinguished  from  some  of  the  more  consciously 
literary  poems  of  other  soldier  poets  by  their  dram 
atic  directness,  with  just  enough  technical  knowl 
edge,  by  their  simple  human  gesture,  their  quick 
fervor  of  boyhood,  their  impatient  demand  that  life 
be  a  sure  swift  happy  thing. 

After  rejections  and  discouragements  on  account 
of  his  health,  Mansfield  succeeded  in  joining  the 
American  army,  and  as  a  private  in  the  Aviation 
Signal  Corps  died  at  nineteen. 

In  preparing  this  volume  from  the  scattered 
material  he  left,  I  have  had  the  help  of  his  mother 
and  of  two  poets,  his  friend,  Anna  Hempstead 
Branch,  and  his  teacher,  Haniel  Long ;  and,  as  near 
ly  as  we  could,  we  have  selected  and  arranged  the 
poems  as  if  he  were  doing  it  and  we  only  advising. 

WITTER  BYNNER. 


CONTENTS 


To  Any  Old  Critic ix 

POEMS  OF  BARAKEESH 

An   Explanation 1 

Dreams 2 

A  Dream  of  Courage 3 

The  Star  Maiden 4 

A  Lament  for  Arcady 5 

The  Lantern  Bearer 7 

The  Little  Bronze  God 9 

Impromptu   10 

The  Lone  Faun 11 

Pan  and  the  Herdboy 13 

Jack  Harley,  Respectable 15 

A  Dreadful  Heritage 18 

The  Thirteenth  Poem 19 

Evening 21 

On  A  Hill-Top 22 

The  Lost  Playmate 23 

I  Waited  for  My  Beloved 25 

Hildreth   Returns 26 

From  a  Window 27 

Night  of  Springtide 28 

Evening  and  Morning 29 

A  Wind 30 

A  Lantern  in  Barakeesh.  .  ....  31 


Valse  Triste 32 

Lament 34 

Gold   Flame 35 

The   Refugee 36 

Two  Sad  Grey  Eyes 37 

The  First  Kiss 38 

Away  to  New  England 39 

POEMS  OF  THE  WAR 

At  Dinner  in  the  Club  with  Some  Pals 43 

The  Face  in  the  Water 45 

Song  of  the  Artists 47 

Memories 50 

He  Is  Dead,  My  Beloved! 51 

The  Service  Flag 52 

They  Would  Not  Have  Him 54 

A  Song  of  Vengeance . .  5g 

Someday 59 

To  the  Morning-Sunrise 61 

If  You  Will  Take  This  Life 63 

After  the  War 64 

For  King  and  Country 65 

The  Star. .  .  67 


TO  ANY  OLD  CRITIC 


So  life  with  all  its  struggles  is  a  sham 

And  not  worth  living,  all  the  world's  a  stage 

On  which  we  play  our  gloomy  parts. 

We  laugh  futilely,  love  futilely,  futilely  rage. 

You  tell  me  that,  do  you?    You  sneer  at  life. 

You  sneer  at  maids  in  love  or  somber  married  men, 

You  without  love  enough  to  take  a  wife. 

Life  is  not,  cannot  be  what  you  say. 

The  things  you  cynically  rail  at, 

None  of  them,  none  of  them  pass  away, 

For  I  know  that  the  very  things  that  you  decry 

Are  most  of  them  just  the  things  I  love; 

And  when  I  hear  you,  head  in  air,  mournfully  sigh, 

Why,  I  laugh  at  your  sighs — that's  all. 


IX 


POEMS 

OF 

BARAKEESH 


AN  EXPLANATION 

Why  do  I  never  reveal  my  real  self  to  you,  oh  you 

people? 

You  ask  me  that — 

You,  who  have  never  shown  me  your  real  selves! 
If  I  were  to  go  about  this  place, 
Preaching  my  gospel  of  art  and  beauty, 
Of  love  and  hope  and  faith, 
You  would  think  me  mad. 
Yet 

When  the  sun  goes  down  in  Barakeesh 
Gilding  with  unbelievable  beauty 
Each  dome,  each  spire  and  minaret, 
I  would  like  to  throw  open  all  its  seven  gates 
And  let  you  in    ... 


DREAMS 

Dreams  I  weave  come  singing  round  me, 
Dreams  of  Barakeesh,  the  golden, 
Dreams  of  that  far-distant  city 
Where  the  naked  boys  run  races, 
Where  the  poets  sing  wild  ditties, 
Where  the  eagle  kills  the  rabbit 
And  the  augur  learns  its  meaning    . 

Dreams  I  weave  come  singing  round  me. 


A  DREAM  OF  COURAGE 

I  thought  —  I  dreamed  —  and  in  my  strange  deep 

sleep, 

An  angel  came  to  me  and  told  me  of  a  maid 
Who  in  a  garden  far  a  watch  did  keep 
For  the  one  man  who  never  was  afraid. 
And  lo,  I  rose  and  turned  to  him  and  said: 
"I  am  that  man.     Lead  on  —  Is  the  maid  fair?" 
The  angel  answered:  "Feared  you,  were  you  dead?" 
"No,"  murmured  I.    "God's  punishment  to  bear, 
Is  right.     I've  sinned  and  yet  He  will  forgive." 
The  angel  smiled,  "And  feared  you  never  me?" 
"No!"  shouted  I,  "In  sorrow  we  all  live. 
Some  more,  some  less.     And  when  I  die,  I  go 
Out  of  this  world  into  a  brighter  one." 
Then,  said  the  angel,  "Feared  you  ever  pain?" 
"No,"  told  I  him, —  "What  use  to  scream  or  run? 
In  God's  hands  we  all  are.    His  is  the  greater  gain," 
Methought  I  saw  within  his  eye  a  tear. 
The  angel  turned  and  these  five  words  he  spoke, 
With  down-cast  eyes:  "And  feared  you  ever  fear?" 
I  could  not  answer,  crying  —  I  awoke ! 


THE  STAR  MAIDEN 

Gently  she  smiled  on  me 
And  I  knew  wonder, 

She  that  they  could  not  see, 
They  so  far  under    .     .     . 

Where  is  the  star  I  found 

Fallen  at  even? 
Glimmering  in  the  ground 

One  out  of  seven    .     .     . 


A  LAMENT  FOR  ARCADY 
To  W.  B. 

Oh,  that  I  were  in  Arcady  —  in  Arcady,  in  Arcady 

Where  leaves  are  green  and  hearts  are  light 

And  one  is  ever  gay  and  free 

And  the  moon  is  merry  all  the  night! 

But  I  am  not  in  Arcady  —  dear  Arcady  —  your 

Arcady, 

Along  whose  sweet  elm-bordered  lanes 
The  poet  and  Celia  one  could  see. 
With  what  loved  pleasures  and  dear  pains 
You  passed  the  time  in  Arcady  —  fair  Arcady  — 

your  Arcady! 

But  Grenstone  is  alas,  too  far 
For  the  poor  tired  feet  of  me. 
Like  some  pure,  distant,  hopeless  star, 
'Tis  further  yet  from  Arcady. 
I  know  the  way  to  Barakeesh  with  minarets  that 

gleam  all  gold. 

Its  seven  gates  I  nightly  pass, 
And  there  my  loved  one  I  enfold. 
In  Barakeesh  there  is  no  grass 
But  only  sands  and  rocks  and  palms, 


Where  fitful  storms  and  cold  and  heat 

Are  pressed  by  still  more  fitful  calms. 

And  there  is  grass  in  Arcady  —  green  grass  —  wet 

grass  in  Arcady. 
The  walls  are  grey  in  Arcady, 
In  Barakeesh  the  walls  are  white, 
But  Barakeesh  belongs  to  me 
And  camels  there  begin  their  flight. 
Its  seven  gates  are  open  wide  — 
To  Barakeesh  I'll  be  your  guide     .     .     . 
Well  though  I  love  your  Arcady. 


THE  LANTERN  BEARER 

Darkness  in  Barakeesh 

And  a  lantern  that  swings  in  the  wind, 

Only  my  little  Bronze  God  can  see 

Through  the  lantern  bearer's  mind. 

Though  they  say  that  the  priests  in  the  mosque 

declare 

That  Allah  is  always  kind, 
The  lantern  bearer  at  sunset  prayed 
On  the  mosque's  rug  strewn  floor 
And  he  wept  and  cast  dust  on  his  head 
Ere  he  passed  through  the  open  door, 
And  it  seemed  that  a  voice  within  him  cried, 
"Allah,  no  more!  no  more! 
Only  without  these  great  grey  walls 
Where  the  lizards  sleep  all  day 
And  the  caravans  pass  in  the  evening 
Towards  Bagdad,  the  always  gay, 
Is  the  slender  wraith  of  a  certain  maid 
Whose  body  is  far  away     .     .     ." 
In  the  Governor's  palace  there  is  a  court 
Called  the  Court  of  the  Setting  Sun 
In  that  court  are  many  flowers 
And  there  faint  waters  run, 
And  thither  the  Governor  goes  to  rest 


When  his  day  of  toil  is  done. 

Why  should  the  lantern  bearer  think 

Of  that  flower-circled  square? 

He  has  never  seen  the  ruler's  court, 

With  its  ornaments  a-flare, 

For  a  hundred  guardian  blackamoors 

Tell  him  he  may  not  dare. 


I  truly  know  that  the  bearer  sighed, 

For  the  Bronze  God  told  me  so. 

The  night  he  sighed,  at  shoulder  arms 

I  was  pacing  to  and  fro. 

But  the  little  God  told  me  the  story 

And  that's  how  I  came  to  know 

That  Nourime,  the  Governor's  daughter, 

Slept  with  a  red,  red  rose, 

And  that  Muskai,  the  lantern  bearer, 

Died  of  a  thousand  blows. 

But  what  meaning  the  rose  and  his  death  had, 

Only  the  Bronze  God  knows. 


THE  LITTLE  BRONZE  GOD 

In  distant  Barakeesh  by  the  desert,  twilight  is  fall 
ing. 
In  distant  Barakeesh  by  the  desert,  someone  is 

calling. 

In  the  dusk  the  passionate  perfumed  jasmine  dream 
ily  breathes 
Midst  the  slow  faint  ensorcelling  flutter  of  leaves. 

In  distant  Barakeesh  where  the  caravans  pass,  is  a 

wall  where  the  jasmine  grows; 
Set  into  that  perfumed  wall  is  a  window  that  only 

the  Bronze  God  knows. 
As  the  caravans  grumble  and  grunt  on  the  road  to 

Istamboul, 

The  night  wind  blows  on  the  latticed  wall  to  keep 
the  jasmine  cool. 

There's  a  face  that  only  the  Bronze  God  knows,  a 

face  at  the  window  there; 
No  one  save  the  little  Bronze  God  knows  if  the 

face  be  fair, 
What  songs  are  sung  under  that  window  in  the  soft 

and  well-starred  night, 

What  hand  stretches  forth  to  the  lovely  face  that 
shines  in  blue  moonlight. 


IMPROMPTU 

Who  is  the  Lady  Micomicona? 

And  is  she  very  fair? 
All  day  long  she  follows  me, 

I  feel  her  everywhere. 

She  terrifies  me,  for  I  hear 
She  has  her  hounds  in  leash ! 

Allah  be  praised  it  is  not  far 
From  here  to  Barakeesh! 


10 


THE  LONE  FAUN 

Grey  morn  and  half  veiled  mist 

From  the  valley  rise    .     .     . 

Something  move  in  the  bushes     .     .     .     Hist! 

What  is  that  that  sighs? 

Cloud-lifting,  weary  and  purple, 

The  mist  rises  over  the  hill, 

Someone     .     .     .     sure     .     .     .     moved  in  the 

murkle ; 

Someone  has  drunk  by  the  rill. 
Who  is  it  danced  in  the  morning's  dew? 
What  is  that  pounding  of  feet 
In  the  brush  .     .     .  and  that  call  strange  and  new? 
But,  oh!  oh!  so  clear  and  sweet? 
Something  tickles  all  down  my  spine, 
And  I  tremble  with  beautiful  awe. 
The  branches  life  up  for  a  sign — 
Some  crows  drift  away,  crying  "Caw." 
Faun    .     .     .     Faun    ...     I  know  you  now  for 

sure. 

You  have  come  back  to  stay, 
Could  not  resist  the  magical  lure 
Of  the  hills  ...  at  the  break  o'  day. 
Say,  Faun,  are  there  more 
Of  your  friends  with  the  prancing  hoofs? — 
Those  who  never  passed  through  a  door 


11 


Nor  who  slept  beneath  roofs 

Save  the  blue  arched  roof  of  the  sky? 

If  there  are,  oh,  Faun  —  call  them  back. 

What  is  that?    Did  I  hear  a  sigh? 

So  soft    ...     so  faint    .     .     .     Oh!  alack! 

Are  you   alone,  then?     No   answer    .     .     .     He's 

gone. 

But  he  understood  well,  I  think  .  .  .  See, 
He  has  left  an  answer — Oak,  ash  and  thorn! 
Meaning  just  .  .  .  "I'll  come  back — Wait  for 

me." 


12 


PAN  AND  THE  HERDBOY 

The  hills  were  blue  and  veiled  with  mist, 
There  was  no  wind  at  all. 

I  had  met  by  chance — by  chance  had  kissed — 
By  chance  had  learned  the  call    .     .     . 

The  strange  clear  call  that  sounds  at  eve 
Or  on  Walpurgis  night, 
And  at  its  sound  the  herdsmen  leave 
Their  flocks  in  trembling  flight. 

The  hills  were  tall  and  very  blue, 
The  fields  were  swathed  in  fog. 
I'd  knowledge  of  things  I  never  knew 
As  I  called  above  the  bog. 

For  with  the  breath  of  spring  and  the  passional 

white  hot  flame, 
Out  of  the  purple  mist,  laughing,  breathless,  sweet 

she  came. 
And  the  old  god's  power  was  in  me,  and  I  spake  the 

.  magic  runes 
And,  straightway,  bog  and  hill  and  field  awoke  with 

wondrous  tunes. 
Pan's  pipes,  they  chuckled  sweetly,  and  I  kissed  her 

mouth  and  eyes, 


13 


While  the  music  poured  from  out  the  hills,  and  oh 

but  it  was  wise, 
Wise  with  the  wisdom  of  godhood  and  strange  with 

ancient  youth, 
It  was  old  as  the  hills  it  came  from  and  full  of  the 

hill's  own  truth. 
But  the  girl  in  my  arms  was  trembling  and  her  eyes 

were  full  of  tears, 
For  the  passional  dream-tone  music  rang  piteous  in 

her  ears. 
"Oh  gods  are  not  always  happy,"  the  music  seemed 

to  cry, 
"Though  they  know  not  either  right  nor  wrong, 

they  sometimes  wish  to  die. 

"For  the  goblins  all  have   hidden  and   the   lepre 
chauns  are  fled 
"And  for  lack  of  mortal  loyalty  the  pixies  now  are 

dead. 

"Only  a  few  pale  fairies  dance  in  the  twilight  hours, 
"Only  a  leprechaun  or  two  wake  mid  the  purple 

flowers. 
"But  Pan  still  pipes  in  the  heather"     .     .     .     then 

I  led  the  maid  away, 
For  it  is  not  good  to  be  with  a  girl  mid  the  hills  at 

the  close  of  day, 
When  Pan,  he  mourns  in  the  purple  hills,  it  is  not 

right  to  stay. 


14 


JACK  HARLEY,  RESPECTABLE 

The  dim  little  shadows  creep  timidly  out  of  cor 
ners, 

The  dim  little  shadows  creep  timidly  back  into  cor 
ners, 

They  shift  and  tremble  and  quiver — 

They  are  cowardly,  terrified,  fearstricken,  timorous 
shadows, 

They  are  the  souls  of  respectable  men. 


Jack  Harley  was,  when  a  youth  of  eighteen  sum 
mers, 

Young,  gay,  good-lucking,  and  the  life 
Of  his  small  home  town.     In  fact  once  a  party  of 

mummers 

Playing,  at  the  opera  house,  some  tale  of  strife, 
Some  melodrama,  urged  him  to  join  their  cast, 
Saying  that  as  the  manager  of  a  New  England  farm 
He  was  wasted.     But  he  refused.    'He  wasn't  fast 
Enough,'  he  told  them.    As  he  grew  older  he  knew 

no  harm 
Nor  hate  towards  man  or  woman.  Later  his  parents 

died, 

One  soon  after  the  other.    And  Jack  was  sad 
And  grieved  quite  properly     .     .     .     But  he  some 
times  sighed, 


15 


"Oh  for  some  youth,  some  life !    Am  I  a  cad 

To  wish  for  all  these  things  just  when  they  are 

dead?" 

He  did  not  know.  He  only  knew  he  wanted  youth, 
And  lights,  laughter,  and  frolic.  To  his  friends  he 

said, 

"I'm  rusting  off  here,  friends,  and  that's  the  truth." 
His  neighbors  said :  "Now  Jack,  don't  you  be  crazy. 
Boy,  you  stay  right  here  and  mind  your  dad's  old 

place. 

May  be  it's  just  because  you're  so  almighty  lazy. 
Go  get  a  wife.    Sue  Haskins  has  a  pretty  face. 
And  she  can  cook  and  sew,  and  knit  as  well." 
Poor  Jack     .     .     .     He   listened  to  them   and   he 

wasted  time 

In  his  attention  to  the  things  they'd  tell. 
They  said  it  was  a  gosh  almighty  crime 
He  didn't  settle  down.    He  was  too  young 
And  sensitive  to  branch  out,  change  his  ways. 
The  dreadful  roots  of  custom  round  him  clung 
And  so,  in  time — in  less  than  sixty  days — 
He  popped  the  question.    Sue,  she  answered  yes. 
And  they  were  married.    And  he  worked  the  farm 
Year  in,  year  out.    Though  sometimes  he'd  confess 
That  the  city  still  held  for  him  its  old  time  charm, 
Yet  he  had  no  time.    Sue,  she  had  babies  four. 
The  farm  demanded  work.    And  so  he  paid  sadly 
His  price  for  peace.    Drudgery,  work  and  then  more 


16 


Rust  and  stagnation.    Oh,  he  would  very  gladly 

Pay  his  dime  to  see  some  cheap  poor  show! 

So  he  grew  older,  worn,  tired    .     .     .    The  price 

was  paid 
In  full.    One  day    .     .     .    They  told  Sue  he  would 

soon  go. 
She  told  the  folks  his  last  words  were     ...     "I 

was  afraid." 


The  dim  little  shadows  creep  timidly  out  of  corners, 

The  dim  little  shadows  creep  timidly  back  into  cor 
ners, 

They  shift  and  tremble  and  quiver — 

They  are  cowardly,  terrified,  fearstricken,  timorous 
shadows, 

They  are  the  souls  of  respectable  men. 


17 


A  DREADFUL  HERITAGE 

It  was  there     ...     It  was  with  him  again. 
It  had  a  habit  of  turning  up  at  odd  moments 
When  he  did  not  want  it. 
He  was  a  friend  of  mine.    It  made  him  ill 
And  finally  killed  him.     Before  he  died, 
He  called  me  to  him  and  told  me  about  It. 
He  left  It  to  me.     I  thought  I  could  manage  It. 
So  when  he  passed  into  the  grey  beyond, 
I  took  It  in  charge. 

My  God!  I  did  not  know    ...     I  did  not  know. 
Every  night  It  sits  on  the  edge  of  my  bed 
And  talks  to  me. 

It  talks  of  Economics  and  Philosophy. 
It  talks  of  Law  and  Ethics. 
It  talks  of  Machinery  and  Literature. 
It  talks  of  the  Uplift  of  the  Drama. 
It  talks  of  pretty  girls. 

I  don't  mind  when  it  talks  of  other  things     .     .     . 
But 

When  it  talks  about  the  pretty  girls 
I  draw  the  line.    They  say  that  I  am  mad. 
I  don't  care.    Perhaps  I  am.    It  follows  me  every 
where. 
My  friend  left  me  a  dreadful  heritage. 


18 


THE  THIRTEENTH  POEM 
IN  BERMUDA 

Twelve  poems  have  I  written,  since  I  have  been 

here, 
And  all  of  them  have  been  more  or  less  about 

love; 
Love  of  a  girl,  love  of  life,  love  of  anything  sacred 

or  dear. 
Love  of  the  glorious  earth  beneath,  the  holy  sky 

above. 
But  this,  the  thirteenth  poem  I  have  written  on  this 

Isle, 

Shall  be  a  poem  of  the  most  bitter  hate : 
Hate  of  fools,  hate  of  silly  persons  who  talk  a  long 

while 
About  nothing  in  particular,  or  persons  who  are 

always  late; 

Hate  of  tall  men  who  talk  loudly  of  their  strength, 
Of  charming   women  who  talk   loudly   of  their 

-    weakness ; 

Hatred  of  girls  who  wear  gowns  of  great  length, 
Hatred  of  ministers  who  make  capital  of  meek 
ness. 
Hate  of  liars  who  do  not  know  how  to  lie ; 


19 


Especially  hate  of  children  who  behave   them 
selves  at  tea; 

Hatred  of  men  who  do  not  know  how  to  die; 
Hatred  of  writers  who  have  not  the  strength  to 

see; 

Hate  of  badly-cooked,  dirty,  or  ill-smelling  food; 
Hate  of  loneliness  caused  by  stern  convention's 

creed ; 

Hatred  of  people  who  positively  enjoy  being  good ; 
Hatred  of  women,   thin,   cheerless,   and   full  of 

greed; 

Hate  of  anything  or  anyone  that  gets  in  my  way ; 
Hate  of  someone  wise  or  gloomy  when  I  would 

be  gay; 

Hate  of  a  pretty  girl  who  hasn't  anything  to  say ; 
And,  last  of  all,  hate  of  an  ill-spent  day. 


20 


EVENING 

The  lingering  shadows  fall.    Soon  comes  the  night, 

The  hills,  the  valleys,  fade  from  out  my  sight, 

And  man  turns  home  again. 

A  little  gentle  wind  makes  music  strange. 

Upon  the  fields  the  sunset  colors  change. 

I  hear  a  sweet  refrain. 

On  earth  peace  is.    In  heaven  quiet  too. 

The  little  stars  peep  from  the  vault  of  blue ; 

And  my  heart  wanders  home 

As  evening  comes,  as  day  its  parting  takes. 

The  moonlight  silvers  over  streams  and  lakes. 

I  smell  the  scented  loam. 

Then  I  arise  and  turn  and  wend  my  way 

Musing  on  that  sweet  bygone  day 

Which  never  will  return.    It  makes  me  cry    .    .    » 

And  yet  another  comes  —  in  which  —  to  try. 


21 


ON  A  HILL-TOP 

You  were  a  child  and  I  was  a  child 

On  the  hill  top  brown  and  bare, 
Your  hair  was  blown  and  your  eyes  were  wild 

As  we  talked  on  the  hilltop  there. 

You  were  a  child  and  I  was  a  child 
Watching  the  smoke-wreaths  drift, 

You  gave  me  your  heart  on  that  windswept  hill, 
Though  I  had  not  begged  the  gift. 

You  were  a  child  and  I  was  a  child 

And  the  spring  was  in  our  veins, 
The  fire  leapt  from  the  valley  dim 

To  burn  our  bridle  reins. 

You  were  a  child  and  I  was  a  child 

Watching  the  smoke  arise  .   .   . 
It  drifted  over  the  hilltop's  brim 

Into  the  somber  skies. 

Yes,  we  were  children  together 

Watching  the  smoke-wreaths  drift, 

And  I  gave  back  your  heart  on  the  hilltop     .    .    , 
Would  God  I  had  kept  the  gift. 


22 


THE  LOST  PLAYMATE 

We  played  together,  you  and  I,  on  the  hills 

By  the  blue,  blue  sea; 
We  ran  down  the  slopes,  laughing  together, 

You  were  dear  to  me. 
I  can  still  remember  your  exquisite  laugh, 

How  you  were  gay; 
Your  face,  with  cameo  clearness,  comes  before  me, 

And  all  that  day 
You  and  I,  we  frolicked  side  by  side. 

I  kissed  your  dear  pale  cheek. 
You  laughed    .     .    .    and  kissed  me  back. 

Then  we  played  hide  and  seek, 
You  were  to  hide,  and  I  was  to  find  you; 

So  I  closed  my  eyes, 

Counted  five  hundred  by  tens,  so  impatient  I  was, 
and  then  I  rose 

Beneath  the  star-flecked  skies 

To  seek  you    ...     I  knew  I'd  keep  you  when  I 
found  you. 

So  I  looked  everywhere. 
The  night  was  very  calm  and  mild, 

Hardly  a  breath  of  air 
Stirred,  and  yet  I  felt  a  vague  sort  of  terror 

Steal  into  my  heart; 


23 


I  called  you,  and  when  the  sound  of  my  voice  came 

back  to  me, 
It  made  me  start 
With  fear    ...     I  looked  for  you  a  long,  long 

time — 

I  have  not  found  you  yet ; 
But  you  kissed  my  lips  and  held  me  close  to  you, 

I  never  shall  forget    .    .    . 
And  I  know  that  some  day  not  yet  to  be,  in  the 

future, 

I  shall  see  you  by  my  side 

Again.    And,  oh,  my  dear,  lost  gladsome  playmate, 
This  time  you  will  not  hide. 


24 


I  WAITED  FOR  MY  BELOVED 

I  waited  for  my  beloved  in  the  dew  of  the  early 

morning,  and  from  the  door  of  my  cottage  I 

could  hear  a  thrush    .     .     . 
I  waited  for  my  beloved  in  the  heat  of  noon,  and 

from  outside  my  latticed  window  a  shrill  cicada 

called    .     .    . 
I  waited  for  my  beloved  in  the  cool  of  the  early 

evening,  and  from  the  dusk  outside  I  heard  some 

dog  a-howling    .     .     . 
I  waited  for  my  beloved  in  the  dead  dark  midnight, 

and  from  the  sky  above  I  saw  a  star  fall    .     .     . 
And  my  beloved  came  to  me  .   .   . 


25 


HILDRETH  RETURNS 

All  I'd  ever  give  you, 

All  I  could  bestow 
Yours  is  for  the  asking 

That  I'm  sure  you  know. 

Trees  are  fair  in  summer, 
Winter  brings  them  pain; 

Summer's  when  you're  near  me, 
When  you're  back  again. 


26 


FROM  A  WINDOW 

Silently  the  shadows  fall, 

The  moonlight  glimmers  on  the  wall  .    .   . 

"Ah,  come  to  me,"  I  hear  you  call, 

My  own  true  love. 

Your  mouth  is  pressed  soft  against  mine, 
Your  kisses  taste  like  scented  wine, 
Our  love  is  like  a  strengthening  vine, 

My  dearest  one. 

My  eyes  are  filled  with  unshed  tears     .     . 
What  though  life  changes  with  the  years, 
Why  talk  of  useless  hopes  or  fears, 

My  sweet  wild  rose? 
So  thus  my  heart  is  yours  to  keep; 
The  hill  of  life  is  high  and  steep, 
Love's  depths  are  wonderful  and  deep. 
You  laugh — and  then  you  fain  would  weep. 
To-night  within  my  arms  you  sleep, 

My  own  sweet  maid. 


27 


NIGHT  OF  SPRINGTIDE 

The  moonlight  filters  o'er  the  dark,  dark  grass, 

Across  the  light  strange  shadows  drift  and  pass. 

I  feel  the  call  of  night  within  me  rise 

And,  thinking,  dreaming,  shed  all  earthly  ties. 

A  voice  I  hear — a  song  divine  outpours 

In  mystic  glory — into  the  night  it  soars. 

My  lips  tremble,  tears  stand,  then  roll 

Down  my  cheeks.    Sorrow  takes  toll. 

Then  the  song  changes.    Light  and  free, 

It  throbs  a  gay  clear  message  unto  me. 

And  then  the  voice  is  mute  and  still. 

The  moon  goes  slowly  down  behind  the  hill. 

Amid  the  wood  rustles  a  little  breeze    .     .     . 

Oh,  for  a  thousand,  thousand  nights  like  these ! 


28 


EVENING  AND  MORNING 

The  shadows  deepen    .     .     . 

The  poplars  sigh  as  a  wind  passes  through, 

The  world  grows  darker    .     .    . 

After  sunset  the  sky  turns  a  deeper  blue, 

A  faint  white  mist  comes  creeping  up  from  the 

sea, 

Light  begin  to  show  here  and  there, 
I  can  hear  the  birds  settling  to  rest  at  the  top  of 

the  old  pine  tree, 

There  is  a  gathering  coolness  in  the  air     ... 
Then  two  soft  hands  in  mine  as  you  return  to  me. 

A  shifting  light  on  my  doorstep     .     .     . 
The  gentle  murmur  of  waves  on  the  sandy  beach, 
The  twitter  of  birds  in  the  branches     .     .     . 
Blue  water,  unclouded  heaven  as  far  as  the  eye 

can  reach, 
Here  and  there  the  delicate  sail  of  a  fishing  smack 

sfiows, 

The  gulls  scream  over  the  water's  unbroken  blue, 
Fnr  there's  scarcely  a  ripple,  so  soft  the  wind 

blows    .     .     . 
And  I  turn  from  my  doorstep  to  breakfast  and 

you. 


29 


A  WIND 

My  thoughts  of  you  are  beautiful  and  pure. 

What  else,  of  you,  could  any  thinking  be  ? 

A  whispering  wind  that  brings  me  perfect  peace  .  .  . 

My  will  grows  stronger,  masterful  and  sure, 

My  love  for  you  is  like  a  cedar  tree. 

Long  years  I've  sought  you  like  a  golden  fleece. 

The  earth,  the  sky,  the  ocean,  each  and  all 
Assist  my  love  and  show  me  yours  in  turn. 
There  is  a  bird  that  sings  to  me  each  day, 
His  voice,  though  harsher,  gives  your  own  sweet 

call, 

And  helps  to  soothe  and  ease  my  passion's  burn  .  .  . 
You  have  not  gone  away 


30 


A  LANTERN  IN  BARAKEESH 

There's  a  golden  light  in  the  west  to-night 

Brighter  than  ever  before, 

There's  a  warm  breeze  out  of  the  south  tonight 

Sweeping  my  cottage  door; 

And  Hildreth  sends  me  a  kiss  to-night, 

So  I  send  her  back  one  more. 

There's  a  window  that  waits  unclosed  to-night 
In  a  home  with  a  strange  dear  name, 
Yes,  a  latticed  window  gleams  to-night 
For  one  who  seldom  came, 
And  a  lantern  in  Barakeesh  shines  to-night 
With  a  pale  exultant  flame. 

I  am  all  alone  in  my  room  to-night 

And  a  cold  wind  moans  outside, 

I  shall  dVeam  of  Hildreth's  arms  to-night 

And  think  not  of  time  nor  tide, 

Yet  I  know  when  I  dreamed  of  her  last  night — 

In  the  darkness  someone  sighed. 


31 


VALSE  TRISTE 

From  a  Composition  by  Ralph  Lawton 

The  music  rises     .     .     . 

The  diners  pause  in  eating, 

Faintly  the  violins  begin  their  wail, 

The  waltz  seems  to  call  out  a  greeting  to  them, 

The  music  tells  them  a  well-known  tale. 

Only  among  the  diners,  who  rising,  begin  to  dance, 

Are  two  apart  from  the  rest     .     .     .     one  a  man, 

dark,  strong  and  tall 
The  other  a  woman,  lovely,  slender,  and  pale,  at 

whom  the  people  glance 

As  they  dip  and  sway  to  the  waltz's  magic  call. 
She  unwilling  yet  forced  by  herself,  is  led  to  the 

polished  floor. 
He  bends  over  her,  passionate,  devouring,  holding 

her  tight. 
She  unresisting  succumbs  to  the  spell  of  another 

hectic  eve. 
They  hover  and  turn  and  swirl  in  the  waltz's  dreamy 

night. 
Her  eyes  are  clouded  with  other  thoughts,  yet  the 

floor  she  cannot  leave. 
Later  after  more  wine  has  been  drunk  and  other 

dances  danced, 


32 


He  will  call  his  carriage  and  help  her  in  and  drive 

off  gloomily, 
Watching  the  slow  rise  and  fall  of  her  breasts  by 

one  gleaming  jewel  enhanced, 
Then  at  the  door  of  his  house  he  will  kiss  her  lips 

and  feel  her  body  sway     .     .     . 
And,  knowing  the  night  is  over,  she  will  hate  the 

inevitable  end — 
Remembering   other   evenings   like   this   one,   and 

other  mornings  just  a  gray, 
As  her  hair  falls  about  her  shoulders  and  he  feels 

her  body  sway. 


33 


LAMENT 

In  the  silver  moonlight  a  jewel's  gleaming 
By  the  rippling  fountain  someone's  dreaming, 
The  wind  through  the  tall,  tall  tree  is  sighing, 
By  the  fountain  a  love  is  slowly  dying. 

In  the  silver  moonlight  a  heart  is  breaking, 
By  the  rippling  fountain  a  wound  is  aching, 
On  the  hills  a  shepherd's  voice  is  calling, 
In  the  black  night  a  star  is  falling. 


34 


GOLD  FLAME 

Gold  flame  lifting  across  a  sullen  sea, 

Red  lightning-gleams  across  a  shuddering  sky, 

A  rush  of  wind  bending  the  tallest  tree, 
And  no  one  knows  the  reason — only  I. 

Where  have  you  been  this  long  eternal  while? 

What  did  you  do  after  you  left  the  town? 
What  were  your  thoughts,  girl  with  the  strange 
dark  smile? 

With  gold-lit  hair,  grey  eyes  and  ragged  gown. 

We  did  not  know  what  thoughts  had  filled  your 
head. 

We  never  knew  the  man  whose  lips  you  kissed. 
We  did  not  know  if  you  were  quick  or  dead. 

We  only  knew  one  thing — that  you  were  missed. 

0 

Now  you  are  back.    And  I  have  seen  you  stand 
On  the  far  downs  close  by  the  sea,  and  cry, 

Your  white  face  hidden  in  your  trembling  hand, 
And  no  one  knows  the  reason — only  I. 


35 


THE  REFUGEE 

There  is  a  girl  called  Ruth 
In  whose  heart  beauty  lives 

And  in  whose  sad  eyes  truth 
Gleams  out  and  comfort  gives. 

To  Barakeesh  she  came 

Seeking  a  different  land, 
For  in  her  soul  a  flame 

Burned  till  she  could  not  stand- 
She  could  not  stand  alone; 

To  Barakeesh  she  fled    .     .     . 
The  world  cannot  atone 

For  all  the  things  it  said. 

The  world  is  harsh  and  stern, 

It  cannot,  will  not  see 
That  the  fair  gentle  fern 

Is  mighty  as  the  tree. 

And  so  it  cuts  and  hacks, 

Across  the  cup  of  tea, 
It  does  not  know  it  lacks 

A  sort  of  purity. 


36 


TWO  SAD  GREY  EYES 

Two  sad  grey  eyes  that  sought  for  strength  and  aid, 
That  sheen  of  golden  hair  .  .  .  the  face  so  pale, 
Quiet  and  still  the  form.  Poor  gentle  slender 

maid    .     .     . 

And  are  the  grey  eyes  seeking  in  some  vale 
For  one  who  said,  ah,  many  a  sweet  wild  thing? 
Is  she  Awaiting  to  meet  him  in  some  field, 
Mid  pale  strange  flowers  where  the  dead  birds  sing? 
And  when  she  finds  him — will  the  grey  eyes  yield 
Their  newborn,  deathborn,  passion,  as  on  that  day 
To  him  who  kissed  and,  laughing,  rode  away? 


37 


THE  FIRST  KISS 

You  vr  II  remember,  no  doubt,  having  once  been 
young,  the  day  when  first  you  kissed  her.  You 
were  taking  her  home,  or  you  were  calling  on  her, 
or  you  met  her  accidentally — it  does  not  matter  how. 

Suddenly,  a  wild,  sweet,  strange  feeling  stole 
through  your  whole  body  and  throbbed  in  your 
veins.  Some  mystic  voice  seemed  to  murmur  subtly 
in  your  ear :  "Do  it  now  .  .  .  now  .  .  .  now !"  And 
just  as  suddenly  you  found  your  arms  about  her 
waist  and  her  eyes  gazing  steadfastly  into  yours. 
You  will  remember  that  there  was  a  queer,  little 
smile  in  the  corner  of  her  lips.  There  .  .  .  with  the 
bewilderment  of  that  which  knows  no  awakening 
.  .  .  your  lips  met  .  .  .  your  souls  for  one  blissful, 
never-to-be-forgotten  moment  crashed  together,  and 
you  were  in  heaven.  The  next  moment  she  had 
escaped  from  you  .  .  .  had  fled  .  .  .  had  run  into 
the  house.  You  walked  home  with  your  blood  on 
fire  and  your  heart  singing  a  delicious  song  of 
triumph.  .  .  .  And  you  dreamed  of  her  all  night 
long. 


38 


AWAY  TO  NEW  ENGLAND 

I  am  coming  back.    I  am  coming  back 
Once  more  to  those  meadows  and  fields. 

I  will  return  to  that  well-worn  track, 
To  all  that  the  country  yields. 

And  my  heart  is  full  of  hope  most  high 
That  the  maid  who  waits  at  the  end, 

Must  feel  my  body  drawing  nigh 
And  knows  that  myself  I  send. 

Yet  Barakeesh  is  not  so  far 

As  her  elm-bordered  street, 
And  £he  beauty  of  a  distant  star 

Is  less  than  when  we  meet. 


39 


POEMS 
OF 
THE 
WAR 


AT  DINNER  IN  THE  CLUB  WITH 
SOME  PALS 

The  orchestra  is  playing  the  first  and  second  move 
ments 

Of  the  Ballet  Egyptien.  It  makes  me  yearn  for 
Barakeesh. 

Barakeesh !    Barakeesh !    How  I  long  for  you. 

You  do  not  know  about  the  war. 

Little  you  care  for  Russia's  attitude. 

You  know  nothing  of  the  Alpine  battles. 

Little  you  care  for  the  blood  and  pain  of  Flanders. 

And  I  doubt  whether  the  men  of  Britain, 

Driving  toward  Bagdad, 

Have  ever  come  within  thinking  distance 

Of  your  turreted  walls,  and  huge  well-guarded 
gates. 

Yet — in  an  English  lane, 

There  is  a  cottage 

And  in  it  an  old  woman 

With  a  young  girl  beside  her 

Weeping  before  a  faded  photograph  of  a  cheery 
youth 

In  the  uniform  of  a  sergeant  in  the  Yorkshires. 


43 


And  I — who  have  felt  Nourime's  lip  on  mine, 

Long  to  be  where  I  can  bring 

Some  comfort  to  that  couple 

In  the  English  cottage, 

And  the  place  is  not  in  Barakeesh, 

No — it  is  elsewhere — 

In  a  redoubt  on  the  Marne. 


44 


THE  FACE  IN  THE  WATER 

The  north  wind  is  blowing 

And  so  I  am  sighing, 
So  many  are  going 

So  many  are  dying. 

The  world  is  bewildered, 

Torn  and  distracted, 
Dazed  and  befuddled, 

By  long  war  protracted. 

Colder  and  colder 

The  icicles  shiver, 
And  older  and  older 

Grows  the  corpse  by  the  river. 

Eyes  that  spoke  clearly, 
Lips  that  so  beckoned, 

She  we  loved  dearly    .     .     . 
Little  we  reckoned. 

Noises  and  crying, 

A  scream  from  her  chamber, 
A  grey  soldier  lying, 

Ah,  well  we  remember. 


45 


An  officer  takes  her, 

Aided  by  others, 
An  ague  shakes  her, 

Where  are  their  mothers? 

Swift  flows  the  river 
Running  so  cleanly, 

Lo!  the  stream  is  the  giver, 
She  did  not  die  meanly. 

And  yet  they  are  weeping  . 

The  water  runs  over 
Where  she  is  sleeping, 

The  stream  is  her  lover, 

Her  heart  is  not  beating 
As  once  it  did  strongly, 

But  it  is  not  greeting 
A  grey  lover  wrongly. 


46 


SONG  OF  THE  ARTISTS 

It  is  no  longer  the  Latin  Quarter, 

Jt  is  no  longer  those  happy  faces, 

Seen  through  a  pale  blue  haze — 

Marie,  a  cigarette  held  delicately  in  her  slender 

fingers, 

Dorothy  smiling  at  a  bottle  of  Chianti, 
And  Jack,  my  chum,  holding  forth  on  the  subject 

of  Sarah,  the  Divine. 
It  is  no  longer  the  Latin  Quarter — 
It  is  no  longer  those  happy  faces. 


We  felt  something  surge  within  us 

An4  we  leapt  forth  to  the  fray. 
We  left  our  books  and  paintings 

To  laugh  at  the  German  Day. 
We  left  our  sculpture  and  drawings, 

Our  plays  and  poems  and  tales, 
To  fight  in  a  dirty  uniform 

And  to  brave  the  winter  gales. 

We  felt  that  the  blood  of  our  brothers, 

Brothers  and  sisters  too, 
Called  us  away  from  our  studios 

To  prove  our  hearts  were  true. 


47 


Deep  from  the  trenches  of  Flanders 

There  sounds  a  ringing  call, 
"A  has  les  Boches !   Come  forward !" 

We  came  and  gave  our  all. 

Oh,  the  fires  are  lit  on  the  Flanders  plains 

And  the  star-shells  streak  the  sky. 
Only  those  who  have  seen  them  know 

How  the  artists  have  learned  to  die — 
For  the  smoke  lifts  grey  o'er  the  Flanders  plains 

And  the  ground  is  streaked  with  red. 
Little  did  we,  who  were  as  gods, 

Think  of  lying  in  such  a  bed. 

Many  of  us  are  fallen; 

We  are  cold,  and  starved  and  mad — 
We  have  left  our  work  and  pleasures 

But  we've  given  all  we  had. 
And  the  Hun,  from  out  his  dugout, 

Seeing  our  torn  blue  line, 
Seeing  those  strange,  wild  faces, 

Yearns  for  his  friendly  Rhine. 

We  have  buried  our  comrades,  one  by  one, 

We  are  wounded,  sick  and  thin — 
Yet,  some  fool  on  a  battered  soap-box 

Mouths  that  it  was  a  sin: 
Let  him  wear  a  khaki  overcoat, 


48 


Put  him  in  the  line  of  fire, 

Let  him  hear  the  yell  of  the  mealy-mouthed  Hun- 
And  he'll  know  that  he  stood  a  liar. 

They  talk  of  peace  and  they  talk  of  love 

And  they  seek  to  end  the  war — 
But  the  artists  laugh  a  grim,  short  laugh 

And  load  their  guns  once  more. 
When  the  fires  are  lit  on  the  Flanders  plains 

And  the  star-shells  streak  the  sky — 
Go  tell  your  friend  on  the  city  street 

Where  the  artists'  bodies  lie. 


It  is  no  longer  the  Latin  Quarter, 
It  is  no  longer  those  pale,  blue  faces 
Seen  through  a  pale  blue  haze. 

Marie  is  playing  somewhere  for  the  Red  Cross. 
Sari  has  lost  a  lover  and  knits  sweaters. 
Jack,  my  chum,  is  flying  at  the  front — for  France- 
It  is  no  longer  the  Latin  Quarter. 
It  is  no  longer  those  happy  faces. 


49 


MEMORIES 

Written  upon  hearing  of  the  death  of  hit  best  friend,  Lieutenant 
]ac\  Wright,  a  boy  of  18,  v>ho  fell  in  an  aeroplane  accident  in  France. 

It's  a  face  in  the  crowd  as  you're  passing  by; 
It's  the  turn  of  a  head  that  will  catch  your  eye; 
It's  a  gay  refrain  that  will  make  you  sigh, 
Memories  —  memories  —  we  all  must  die. 

The  hotel  lobby  is  gold  and  red, 
And  you  catch  yourself  thinking  of  things  he  said, 
And  a  girl  conies  near,  with  a  turn  of  her  head — 
He'd  have  liked  her,  too, — but  he  is  dead. 

So  the  flowers  will  grow  by  his  grave  some  day, 
And  the  world  goes  on  with  its  work  and  play ; 
But  I  catch  myself  humming  a  song  that's  gay. 
It's  how  he  would  like  to  have  died — that  way! 


50 


HE  IS  DEAD  MY  BELOVED! 

Put  it  behind  you — all  this  regretting, 
The  deed  is  done — there's  no  need  to  weep, 
Cease,  I  beg  of  you,  cease  this  fretting, 
Only  calm  yourself  and  rest  and  sleep. 

I  know  as  well  as  they  what  he  was  to  you — 
Warm  and  desiring,  passionate,  proud, 
Standing  up  boldly,  honest  and  true  to  you, 
Yet  holding  himself  just  aloof  from  the  crowd. 

Say  would  he  wish  it  thus,  seeing  you  weeping? 
If  your  tears  brought  him  back,  then  I'd  let  you 

weep  on. 

Sleep  and  perchance  he'll  return  to  you  sleeping — 
Dreams  often  bring  to  you  one  who  is  gone. 

Death's  not  so  fearful  to  part  you  asunder, 
Woman  is  weak  but  man's  not  more  strong. 
Death's  just  a  perfect  and  beautiful  wonder, 
So  cry  not,  weep  not,  for  weeping  is  wrong. 

Raise  yourself  then  and  go  on  with  your  work, 
That  is  the  duty  you  cannot  gainsay, 
The  brave  are  the  sunny,  it's  weaklings  that  shirk  .  .  . 
Yours  be  the  laurel  wreath — his  be  the  bay ! 


51 


THE  SERVICE  FLAG 

A  square  of  white  on  a  square  of  red — a  square 
of  white — stainless  white — on  a  square  of  flaming 
scarlet — and  in  the  center  a  blue  star. 

They  hang  on  flagstaffs.  They  adorn  hotel  lob 
bies.  They  wave  from  shop  windows.  They  are 
flaunted  from  the  porches  of  private  houses.  They 
are  the  Service  Flags! 

Happy  the  home  that  possesses  one.  Sorry  the 
day  when  the  men  of  the  house  do  not  earn  the 
houses'  right  to  flaunt  the  emblem.  And  joyous  the 
thoughts  of  the  youths  and  men  who,  returning, 
behold  the  symbol  of  their  sacrifice. 

He  was  a  youth  of  some  one  and  twenty  sum 
mers.  His  face  was  a  dingy  mottled  grey.  He 
liked  to  shoot  craps  on  the  Court  House  steps  and 
leer  at  the  girls  from  the  threshold  of  Harris'  Drug 
Store — then  the  draft  got  him. 

A  square  of  white  on  a  square  of  red,  and  in  the 
center  a  blue  star.  It  hung  lazily,  proudly — this 
new  flag,  from  an  improvised  flagstaff,  in  front  of 
the  youth's  mean  little  house,  in  a  mean  little  street 
— his  sister  learned  to  speak  of  "my  brother  in  the 
Army." 

It  was  a  dirty  trench  in  front  of  a  wire  entangle 
ment  in  France.  All  day  long  the  German  guns  had 


52 


pounded  the  Yankee  line.  All  day  long  their  shells 
had  shrieked  and  hovered  over  the  heads  of  the 
troops  in  khaki,  and  had  searched  their  trenches, 
the  barrage! 

Over  the  top  with  the  best  o'  luck  and  give  them 
Hell!  An  officer  raises  his  cane.  With  twelve 
hundred  other  figures,  the  youth  leaps  forward. 
Yells,  shots,  smoke,  pandemonium!  They  are 
across — they  are  there!  They  have  gained  the 
enemy  trench. 

They  buried  the  youth  at  dawn  in  a  little  grave 
behind  the  lines,  and  they  spoke  in  lowered  tones 
of  the  manner  in  which  he  had  captured  the  Ger 
man  colors,  sheathed  almost  indistinguishable  in 
their  water-proof  casings  in  their  Headquarters  dug 
out.  t  "He  was  some  boy,"  they  murmured  as  the 
rifles  crashed  thrice  across  his  grave. 

It's  a  square  of  white  on  a  square  of  red.  And 
in  the  center  is  a  blue  star.  They  are  very  proud — 
the  houses  that  they  adorn.  The  scarlet  for  the 
blood  that  we  shed ;  the  white  for  the  stainless  pur 
ity  of  our  cause :  the  blue  star — our  star  of  hope  for 
our  loyalty — unswerving  faith.  Gentlemen!  the 
Service  Flag. 


53 


THEY  WOULD  NOT  HAVE  HIM 

They  would  not  have  him. 

All  the  long  weeks  of  patient  training  and  of  eager 

work, 

His  own  firm  loyalty  to  his  country's  flag, 
His  record  with  his  company  that  told  the  tale, 
Counted   as   nothing   beside   the   examiner's    curt 

verdict, 
They  would  not  have  him. 

In  his  too  bright  imagination  he  had  seen 
The  star  shells  burst  above  his  own  platoon, 
Heard  his  own  voice  call  out  its  curt  commands, 
Seen  his  own  hand  deal  blows  that  brought  down 

many  a  Hun. 

"What  was  the  good?"  he  mused  almost  aloud, 
He'd  offered  himself,  and  he  had  been  refused. 
He  knew  his  comrades  all  were  there — fighting  for 

right, 

Fighting  for  justice — and  he  stayed  behind. 
They  would  not  have  him. 

i 

Yet  the  chance  would  come. 
Some  day  the  call  would  be  sent  out  again. 
Some  day  his  name  would  come  before  the  board 
once  more 


54 


And  all  his  hopes,  his  poems,  his  dreams  at  last 

come  true; 

He'd  have  his  chance  to  prove  his  loyalty, 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  with  the  nation's  best. 
And  if  he  were  to  fall,  he'd  do  so  smiling, 
Knowing  in  his  joy — they'd  taken  him  at  last, 
They'd  have  him  then. 


55 


A  SONG  OF  VENGEANCE 

The  night  is  dark, 

There  is  no  light — no  light! 

All  the  world  is  dark, 

The  night  is  dark    .     .     . 

It  is  no  ordinary  darkness,  this. 

Even  the  moon  trembles  and  hides  her  face, 

Pale,  trembling  moon,  shivering  behind  warm 

clouds, 

I  do  not  blame  you. 

I,  too,  fear  to  look  upon  the  sights  you  hide  'from. 
Yet  I  must  do  it — for  I  am  a  man 
And  I  must  avenge! 
Revenge!    Revenge!   That  is  a  word  I  never  knew 

till  now. 

Death  and  red  blood  seemed  very  distant  once. 
I  have  known  love. 
I  have  felt  kisses  soft  upon  my  lips. 
I  have  felt  bodies  warm  against  my  own, 
I  have  looked  into  eyes  tender  and  lit  with  love, 
I  have  fought  boyishly,  half  laughing  as  I  did  so, 
But  this — this  game  of  killing  my  fellow  men  is 

new  to  me. 

Still — are  they  my  fellow  men? 
That  is  a  question  difficult  to  answer: 
Are  they  my  fellow  men,  these  things,  these  Huns? 


56 


Partners  all  in  a  danse  macabre  of  lusty  killing, 

Rapers  of  women, 

Breakers  of  oaths, 

Butchers  of  babes — 

I  doubt  it. 

If  these  are  my  fellow  men, 

Better  the  apes  from  whom  they  tell  me  I  descend ! 

Yes,  I  will  slay,  and  it  shall  be  no  crime, 

For  in  this  darkness  I  can  see  the  eyes, 

The  eyes  of  virgins  with  their  virtue  robbed, 

The  eyes  of  heroes  treacherously  stabbed, 

The    eyes    of    hostages    killed    for    their    gaolers' 

pleasure, 

The  eyes  of  murdered  children, 
The  eyes  of  boys  who  never  shot  a  gun, 
The  eyes  of  aged  women  and  old  men, 
The  eyes  of  countless  hundreds  tortured  to  their 

graves, 

Those  eyes  call  out  for  vengeance ! 
They  whisper  eagerly  to  me  in  the  quiet  of  my 

room ; 
They  call  out  from  the  shadows  when  I  walk 

abroad ; 

They  gibber  at  me  no  matter  where  I  go. 
Vengeance!     They  claim  it  as  their  due. 
Vengeance!     It  is  their  right,  their  wage. 
Vengeance!     If  it  is  not  theirs,  it  is  not  God's. 
Vengeance!     And  we  shall  give  it  them. 


57 


Those  murdered  babes  of  wrongly  sunken  ships, 

Those  crucified  of  Belgium  and  of  France — 

They  shall  have  vengeance. 

Coldly,  quietly,  almost  with  half  a  smile, 

We  come,  youths  of  the  New  World  eager  for  the 

fray — 

They  shall  have  vengeance, 
And  we — we  youths  of  the  New  World — we  shall 

give  it  them! 


58 


SOMEDAY 
To  H.  S.  H. 

Little  girl  I  love  with  heart  aflame, 

Will  the  times  come  back  and  be  the  same 

As  before  I  took  up  war's  great  game? 

The  shadov/s  are  thick  round  the  barrack  walls, 

Over  the  sound  a  curlew  calls, 

On  the  roofs  the  white  snow  gently  falls. 

There  are  no  streets  that  gleam  and  shine, 
There  are  no  heart  beats  close  to  mine. 
Hush!  an  organ  near  plays  Auld  Lang  Syne. 

"Come  back  to  your  New  London  fields,  come  back 

to  all  your  mist-filled  dreams, 
Come  back  to  all  love  surely  yields,  the  meadows 

call  you — and  the  streams. 
It's  Barakeesh  in  flower  tide — in  summer  tide — in 

flowertide. 
Come  back   to  your  own  fireside,   it's   Barakeesh 

that's  calling  you. 
O  Grenstone  Town  is  close  beside"  .    .    .  And  yet 

the  bugle  ringing  true  — 
"Someday — "  the   bugle  fiercely  cried,   "someday, 

you'll  learn  to  love  me  too !" 


59 


Little  girl  who  gave  me  your  lips  to  kiss, 
Little  girl  whom  I  bitterly,  sadly  miss, 
I  am  keeping  still  my  dream  of  bliss. 

The  shadows  are  dark  by  the  flagstaff  bare 
And  the  moon  wakes  subtle  shadows  there; 
Khaki  is  black  'neath  the  pale  moon's  stare. 

Someday  the  flowers  will  bloom  again; 
For  blood  will  not  be  shed  in  vain, 
Flowers  can  only  bloom  through  pain. 

"Come  back  to  your  dear  city  streets.    Come  back  to 

all  the  things  you  know. 
Only  when  loved  one  loved  one  meets,  is  happiness. 

Why  did  you  go? 
Come  back  to  Barakeesh  and  love.     Come  back  to 

voices  soft  and  low. 
For  there  the  sky  is  blue  above.     Oh  boy — you 

didn't  have  to  go !" 
But  where  the  flag  flaps  in  the  breeze,  he  said,  "I 

heard  the  bugle  blow, 
It  took  me  from  my  life  of  ease,  I  will  come  back, 

I  had  to  go!" 


60 


TO  THE  MORNING-SUNRISE 

I  was  cold,  but  now  I  am  so  no  longer. 

I  was  tired  and  ill,  but  now  I  am  myself  again. 

My  feet  were  trembling  and  feeble,  but  now  I 
walk  with  the  captains  and  the  leaders  of  men. 

For  I  have  looked  into  your  eyes  and  I  have  felt 
your  lips  on  mine. 

I  was  afraid  of  many  things,  but  now  if  you 
were  to  bid  me  open  the  door  to  death  himself,  I 
would  smile  and  obey  you. 

I  was  selfish  and  thought  only  of  myself,  but 
now  it  seems  my  sole  duty  is  to  accomplish  your 
desire. 

Soon  it  may  be  that  I  shall  go  to  my  death,  and 
because  I  know  but  little,  death  is  strange  to  me. 
Yet  I  care  not. 

For  I  have  felt  your  arms  about  my  neck  and 
your  hair  has  brushed  against  my  cheek. 

Oh,  my  beloved,  walk  with  me  yet.  Do  not 
depart  from  me,  for  your  eyes  are  as  an  untroubled 
pool  from  which  no  living  thing  has  drunk.  Your 
eyes  are  like  an  untroubled  pool  by  moonlight. 

Oh,  one  to  whom  I  have  given  my  heart— do  not 
throw  it  away.  For  I  am  indeed  most  utterly  lost 
if  you  do  not  keep  my  heart. 


61 


Though  well  I  know  it  was  very  dirty  and  foul, 
through  much  rolling  and  gambolling  in  the  mud, 
yet  have  you  washed  it. 

With  your  tears  you  have  washed  the  mud  and 
dust  away.  And  with  your  fair  white  hands  you 
have  moulded  it  even  into  the  shape  of  a  true  and 
loyal  heart. 

I  would  speak  of  your  hair  even  as  I  have  spoken 
of  your  eyes,  oh,  my  beloved,  but  words  come  not 
when  I  would  speak  of  your  hair.  Yet  because  I 
love  you — only  God  knows  how  dearly — I  will  try. 

Your  hair  is  golden,  and  very  soft  and  fine.  It 
curls  about  the  slender  column  of  your  neck  in  little 
tendrils  and  it  shimmers  with  an  allurement,  with 
a  very  sweet  allurement,  so  that  I  would  fain  press 
my  lips  to  that  golden  hair,  and  keep  them  there  a 
long,  long  time. 

My  beloved,  I  am  yours.  Even  though  you  close 
your  doors  against  me,  and  your  father's  servants 
thrust  me  from  the  gates,  yet  am  I  yours.  If  your 
God  is  not  my  God,  then  will  I  forsake  my  God, 
whom  I  am  loath  to  leave,  for  indeed  he  was  a  very 
merry  God,  a  God  of  laughter  and  singing,  of  mai 
dens  and  wine,  yet  will  I  leave  him,  and  cleave  unto 
your  God. 

All  that  I  have  is  yours,  and  I  live  but  to  win 
your  smile. 

For  you  are  my  beloved,  and  I  am  your  man. 


62 


IF  YOU  WILL  TAKE  THIS  LIFE 

If  you  will  take  this  life  and  build  it  up, 
Fill  to  the  brim  my  happiness'  clear  cup, 
With  your  sweet  strength  I  will  the  nobler  be 
And  some  of  your  dear  wealth  infuse  in  me. 

Keep  yet  my  hand. 
Do  not  release  it.  Let  it  still  hold  yours. 

Keep  yet  my  heart. 
Do  not  release  it.  Wear  it  on  your  breast. 

Keep  yet  my  life. 


63 


AFTER  THE  WAR 


After  the  War! 
After  the  War! 
After  the  War! 
After  the  War! 

After  the  War! 
After  the  War! 
After  the  War! 
After  the  War! 


How  far  away  that  seems ! 
The  goal  of  all  our  dreams. 
Is  that  time  near  or  far? 
Oh,  happy  distant  star! 

And  your  lips  find  my  own. 
And  all  our  cares  have  flown. 
The  world  at  last  at  rest. 
Hildreth,  we'll  build  our  nest. 


64 


FOR  KING  AND  COUNTRY 

The  king,  he  sits  in  his  chamber  high, 
With  a  hundred  faithful  courtiers  by    .    .    , 
What  matters  it  if  the  soldiers  die? 
"Pis  all  for  King  and  Country! 

Outside  is  heard  the  bugles'  blare ; 
The  band  is  playing  a  lively  air. 
See  how  the  burghers  stop  to  stare     .     .    . 
'Tis  all  for  King  and  Country ! 

What  matters  it  if  far  away, 
In  the  trenches,  they're  dying  every  day? 
While  they're  dying,  hear  them  say: 
'Tis  all  for  King  and  Country ! 

Over  the  wires  comes  the  news, 
That  this  is  a  battle  our  enemies  lose — 
But  our  men  they  die  in  the  bloody  ooze, 
'Tis  all  for  King  and  Country ! 

The  King,  he  smiles  that  the  news  is  good ; 
His  men  are  dying  for  lack  of  food — 
But  it  doesn't  matter — when  understood 
'Tis  all  for  King  and  Country! 


65 


But  for  mothers  who  weep  and  for  babes  who  cry 
And  for  girls  who  wait,  and  for  men  who  die, 
Led  to  their  death  by  a  noble  lie, 
There'll  be  a  reckoning  by  and  by! 

To  be  met  by  King  and  Country ! 


66 


THE  STAR 

Let  us  fight  on.    So  let  us  always  be — always. 
A  smile  on  the  face,  the  hand  thus  held  outstretched, 
Eyes  clear  and  head  held  high.    Thus  may  we  be, 
Thus  ever.     Let  us  fight  on.    Things  changed  we 

often  see. 

Let's  help  tc  change  them — not  stand  idly  by 
In  careless  attitude.    Let  the  world  laugh  or  cry — 
What  is  it  all  to  us?    Ours  is  the  fight. 
Ours  is  the  nobler  deed    .    .     .    nobler  by  far 
Because  we  gaze  and,  gazing,  see  a  star. 
Who  knows,  we  may  soon  find  if  it  is  there. 
Let's  look.    Only  those  find  who  looking  seek,  and 

dare. 

And  the  star  found — let's  share  it  with  the  earth 
And  smile  in  sharing.    There's  too  great  a  dearth 
Of  gratitude  and  generous  hearts  hereby. 
Let's  give  and  give  and  give  until  we  die. 
We'll  speak  the  truth  and  face  things  with  a  smile. 
Things  are  the  better  for  it.    Who  knows,  in  some 

brief  while 

All  may  be  different — we  the  changers,  too. 
We'll  change  the  world  together — I — and  you! 


67 


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